


Have My Heart

by suqua (wuhnona)



Series: Bondverse Napollya [4]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Kissing, M/M, Mission Related, Napoleon is the 00 and Illya is Quartermaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23102053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wuhnona/pseuds/suqua
Summary: Napoleon had learned from Moneypenny that their Quartermaster was a former agent out of Russia. He had been surprised only briefly, but Illya's work spoke for itself. Meticulous, detailed, innovative. Napoleon had nothing to argue with, aside from some of Illya’s backseat driving while Napoleon was on a mission. But eventually, Illya hadn’t had to do so nearly as often. He still greatly disapproved of what he called the recklessness of the American Cowboy but he also proudly claimed that his ‘nagging’ had resulted in making the other man a much better agent.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Series: Bondverse Napollya [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1444654
Comments: 5
Kudos: 130





	Have My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Some of this was written last summer when I wrote the OG story... Bulk of it was chopped, edited, or newly written so it could be a lil standalone story. Illya has an eyepatch because that's what I decided last summer and I forgot until I flipped through my notebook and the word 'eyepatch' was in giant letters circled multiple times. (Illya in a turtleneck labcoat with an eyepatch is such a Pokemon Professor lewk tho)... ENJOY. 
> 
> Note: references are made to both the original Star Wars & The Princess Bride for some reason. 
> 
> Title barely from Skyfall lyrics again because it's easy im sorry;';

Napoleon was strapped to a rickety, ancient electric chair bored out of his _mind_. 

“Still listening, Mr. Solo? You see...”

When the torturer turned to look at the tool cabinet he housed his toys in, Napoleon quickly tipped the lockpick into his fingers and unlocked one wrist before moving to the other. Seconds. Then, his ankles. Pressing a tiny latch on his belt buckle, it unhooked from the leather, and he withdrew a short knife. The scrapbook of horror in his peripheral is the only reason Napoleon needs to slit his torturers throat with little reluctance. Then, he goes to attend to his wardrobe. 

Shoes back on and jacket over his arm, Napoleon checks his reflection in the window before stepping over the gurgling body and back into the hallway. They small team that had ambushed him had left his shoulder holster and gun with his things, Napoleon assumed they were just confident _and_ stupid, which was good news for him. 

Taking the tiny ear piece from inside of a hidden jacket pocket and turning it on, he placed it into his ear. He also takes out an iphone, a couple years obsolete with a cracked screen, turning it on. He tucks it into his inside pocket as the radio activates. He can hear distant voices at first, Napoleon’s familiar enough with it to know it’s the background buzz of Q Branch. 

"Hello? Q? You still there-" 

There’s a soft scuffle. " _-009, Report_."

Napoleon huffed. “No hello? You know, after waking up in a maniac's torture chamber, it’d be nice to hear a _friendly_ voice.” He slipped the jacket onto one arm, greeting the usual aches and pains with a slight groan. “Oh, Q- you would have hated this thing, it looked like a bad Halloween decoration. The wiring _alone_ -" 

A growl. _“Report, now.”_

Sighing, Napoleon began to explain what he'd learned prior to his capture before coming back to his most recent ordeal, "-and then, I wake up strapped me to this old, old rusty electric chair. He actually wanted to electrocute me! Who _does_ that, Q?" 

There's silence in his ear, some occasional whispers of sound for a moment. 

Napoleon slaps a hand against his pockets, finding his watch and slipping it back onto his wrist. The underside of it contained the key to his mission, a tiny flash drive. By that time, he’d been unconscious for about four hours. 

There’s still no response when the watch is in place. "You there, Q? I'm going to need you to help me get out of here with the data. I'll let you be angry at me later."

Napoleon got a scoff for that before he heard, " _Need update on your physical condition, 009. Shortness of breath, heart rate, dizzy. Anything unusual?_ " 

“No, no- he _tried_ to electrocute me. The wiring was faulty, or something- ancient thing. I wasn’t sure I could get out of that one alone. He was going to go 'the old-fashioned route' with his tools, but I got out of there before he could pick out anything particularly gruesome. He’s ah, taken care of.”

" _Good. I have you. Exit is three floors above you. Take stairs._ "

"Oh excellent, more cardio,” Napoleon said, taking off through the halls on silent feet. His volume drops. "You think Vinceguerra is still angry about the bomb? Her scarring is actually quite striking, but my God... _torture by electric chair?_ ”

“ _Go now, clear hallway. Hurry._ ”

Like a bolt, Napoleon heads the last flight of stairs through the door. He knows Q only tells him to hurry when he really _did_ need to hurry. He is directed through many hallways, lungs burning, but only catches the glimpse of boots going around corners as he is masterfully directed to the exit. He is told to wait for an opening, crouching again to catch his breath. 

Napoleon’s eyes narrow as the hall crackles as a speaker system turns on. The now familiar voice of a mousy little man, Vinceguerra's latest hireling announces, “You won’t escape, Agent Solo,” and the voice in Napoleon’s ear scoffs, making him grin. The intercom adds, “Hopefully you realize that we don’t actually need you alive, so—“

The intercom cuts out and Napoleon knows it’s Q before the Russian gruffly mutters, “ _Idiot_.” Napoleon always finds it nice to hear him insult someone else. 

“‘Boring conversation, anyway’,” Napoleon quips, earning himself another scoff but it was tinged with amusement. 

Q had little patience for Napoleon's American pop culture references much less what he deemed ‘unnecessary’ chatter on the radio. Napoleon couldn’t keep his mouth shut- at least with his Q, he’d been known to go radio silent on most handlers- and Q had quickly learned having your ear talked off was a peril of working with 009. 

But their partnership was worth the bickering and additional chatter by M, because Napoleon’s damage ratio- his visits to medical, loss of priceless equipment, all of it dropped significantly. Even Moneypenny deemed him a better agent to work with, shortly before her promotion veritably running MI6 with an iron fist. 

“ _Way out is clear, most security is now occupied. Go, agent.”_

Napoleon’s former captors are trapped themselves, Q having taken over their own security system and suddenly most were trapped between electric doors by Q’s hacking. Napoleon was shortly making his way from the countryside and tearing through the streets of London on a shoddy Vespa while Q interrupted his few straggling pursuers route with cleverly timed traffic lights. At midday, the traffic was terrible and only took a few turns to lose the remainder. 

“Please tell me I can go find something to eat, Q,” Napoleon said, slowing into an alley and still keeping an eye out. “And a nice glass of scotch, while we’re at it.” 

“ _Get kebab from shop next to you, eat on the way. Cab will be there shortly, leave bike and report back to HQ immediately. Medical is waiting. No scotch, even if they did sell it there._ ” 

Kebab? On the way?! Napoleon’s traitorous stomach growled, he truly wanted to sit down and eat his first real meal in days. He sighed and patted his pockets, looking for his money clip. A small mercy that his captors weren't the sort to steal his wallet, finding it in his trouser pocket as usual. “What a day. Retrieved a lot of data files, fighting, torture..” The list reminds him of something and he adds, “..revenge, giants, monsters, chases, escapes-“ 

“ _Revenge? Gi— Cowboy, please._ ”

“—True love, _miracles_.” Napoleon’s still smiling to himself when he walks into the kebab restaurant, the chime of the bell almost enough to drown out the response.

“ _... ‘Does not sound too bad. I’ll try to stay awake.’_ ”

The kebab shop cashier is smilingly patient as Napoleon laughs into his own hand before paying for his food. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the cab pull up to the curb and wait. 

As soon as he steps away to wait for it, Napoleon can’t resist. “Your vote of confidence is _overwhelming_ , Q,” Napoleon says, mouth hurting from how hard he grins at now knowing his Q has seen _The Princess Bride._

Napoleon paid for the meal and tipping handsomely before jumping into the cab outside. He hands the cab driver the remainder of the bills in his money clip for the ride and the fact that he was definitely going to eat in the car. They actually converse pleasantly about the best place to get kebab in the city on the way to MI6 HQ. 

Wiping his mouth, Napoleon tosses the container before heading inside.

Moneypenny was waiting for him just inside, the picture of poise as she flirted with the receptionist. Napoleon simply removed the watch from his wrist and pressed it into her hand, kissing her cheek and hurrying off to Q Branch. Behind him, he could feel the rolling of Gaby’s eyes as she pocketed the dangerous information in the tiny pocket of her dress. 

Q’s office was spotless. The room was covered in projects in various stages of completion, and were cycled in and out frequently as Q was nothing if not productive. Some were more delicate than others, and the slightest change could ruin one or more of them. 

Napoleon had once come back to MI6 soaked through with cooking oil and still squelching with every step. To be fair, he’d had a direct order to report in and turn in his equipment immediately. No one had listened to Napoleon when he'd protested over the radio, so he’d done as ordered- leaving a steady drip and oily footprints across most of the building. 

Q was horrified by the tracks he had brought in, the smudge of handprints from where he'd steadied himself as he took out the oil-soaked equipment. An exhausted Napoleon and an overworked quartermaster had exchanged words and all of the equipment had been unsalvageable. Afterwards, Napoleon met with the ice-cold wall of Q's absence for weeks afterward, rumor had it that the sight of him riled Q's infamous temper. 

Until Napoleon brought back a keepsake from a trip into Bolivia, a hand-carved King piece he'd noticed as he had been chased through the streets of market stalls. He’d gone back and even paid for it.

He'd been alone in the office when he'd left his gun, the King piece next to it on the tray. To Napoleon's surprise, the next time he picked up his equipment, the chess piece had a place of honor on the shelf behind Q's desk. And Q was actually _there_ for the first time in weeks. Even more to Napoleon’s surprise, his next communication with the Russian had resulted in _banter_ , instead of his one-sided musings over the air. 

Apparently, the Siberian tiger was susceptible to these little bribes. So when Napoleon saw the opportunity to acquire a handmade chess piece again, he'd picked it up without a thought beside it. 

And eventually Napoleon had brought him an entire chess set of various different materials, from across several continents and as a result... their relationship had improved considerably. 

"Oh good. The idiot Cowboy is back," Illya said flatly as Napoleon pushed the door open to Q Branch.

Across the room, Napoleon could see Illya was standing over the engine of Napoleon's favorite car in the entire world. He had the sleeves of his black turtleneck rolled up to the elbow. Illya nearly always wore black, aside from the occasional lab coat. The leather patch that hid his right eye matched as well, giving him a mysterious, dangerous air that was well earned. 

Never one to deny his curiosity, Napoleon had learned from Moneypenny that their quartermaster was a former agent out of Russia. He had been surprised only briefly, but his work spoke for itself. Meticulous, detailed, innovative. Napoleon had nothing to argue with, aside from some of Illya’s backseat driving while Napoleon was on a mission. But eventually, Illya hadn’t had to do so nearly as often. He still greatly disapproved of what he called the recklessness of the American Cowboy. He also proudly claimed that his ‘nagging’ had resulted in making the other man a much better agent. 

A Q branch assistant was at Illya’s elbow, immediately fetching tools as directed or staggering away with heavy parts that Illya flung around like they were made of paper. Q kept his subordinates on their toes. 

Napoleon stopped short as he finally took in the sight of the Aston Martin that he'd missed out on this last mission, stopping to trace a hand over one of the few unblemished areas. 

"What on earth did that bad man do you, lovely?" Napoleon said with a sigh, mouth twisting sadly as he took in the scorch marks and twisted metal of the driver side door. 

Illya, knowing that he was talking about a certain 00 Agent, smirked. "What didn't he do? Bullets, fire, water damage... hit boat somehow."

Napoleon couldn't help his incredulous tone, "He hit _a boat_? Why- How is that even possible?" 

“Who knows? He turned off communication... but still alive, apparently,” Illya said, straightening up and wiping grease from his hands. He finally looked over at Napoleon, eyes narrowing. “You have not been to medical yet.” He pointed at Napoleon with one hand. “You.” He pointed out the door. “Go. Now.” 

Napoleon blinked, holding his arms out in a shrug. “I feel fine?” 

Illya scoffs. “I forgot you also stole medical degree when you were common thief,” he said, wiping his hands roughly once more as he strapped on his watch. “Let’s go. Medical, now.”

“I’m-“ Napoleon says, mouth clamping shut when Illya gives him a look. “Should I leave my-“

“Turn around, start walking,” Illya ordered, shutting the hood of the Aston Martin- Napoleon winced at the suddenly visible gouges and bullet holes there. 

Illya strong armed him out of Q Branch and into the hallway, though Napoleon didn’t offer much of a fight. He had been planning on going right after dropping by Q branch, but apparently forgetting about his time in the electric chair was unacceptable. 

Even if it had had a glitch. 

And hadn’t actually electrocuted him.

Napoleon had a feeling they weren't going to medical, anyway. Not straight there, anyway. 

Illya steers them down a deserted hallway. The entire time they’ve been walking, he hadn’t spoken more than a handful of single syllable responses, not unlike the Q Napoleon conversed with on the radio. But that was more just Illya, so he prattled on. But once they were in a particular hallway with rarely used conference rooms, Illya pulled Napoleon into one. 

Closing the door behind him and cutting off a majority of the light, Illya steered Napoleon by the handful of lapel crushed in his hand to the long conference table in the center of the room. Along the baseboards of the room are pale yellow lights, enough light to see but not too much. Anyone passing wouldn't see them. Illya pushes a swivel chair away from the far end of the table, it smacks into the wall as Napoleon’s thighs hit the table. 

Just as abruptly, Illya lets go. His fingertips are touching the table, on either side of Napoleon. 

In the dim light, Napoleon could see the glimmer in his left eye scanning him once more, the silvery line of his scar leading up one cheekbone and slipping underneath the leather covering the other. Still looking up at Illya’s face, Napoleon leans forward and digs his fingers between Illya’s belt and trousers. When he pulls, Illya steps forward and Napoleon leans more heavily onto the table until he’s nearly sitting with Illya between his knees. 

“I did a good job,” Napoleon whispers, grinning when Illya leans forward and nearly closes the gap between them. Like a moth to flame. “I finished the mission _and_ I came back.” 

Illya grunts softly, eyebrows lifting but his mouth flat as though this is not impressive to hear... but Napoleon knows he’s also fighting a smile. His big hands rose to grip Napoleon’s waist and push him back to suggest that he sit- Napoleon does, the heat of Illya’s thighs on the inside of his own. He can’t resist hooking his ankles loosely behind Illya’s knees.

The air between them is hot and humid quickly, barely space left between their bodies. 

Illya doesn’t say a word for a moment before he inhales broadly, taking in a lungful of air before he speaks, and when he does, it’s in a rough murmur: _“Show me.”_

Then Napoleon is the one fighting the urge to smile- but he’s not nearly as stubborn at hiding it, eventually allowing himself to smirk. “ _As you wish_ ,” Napoleon goads softly, teeth showing when Illya grumbles. 

Wetting his lips once first, Napoleon lets go of Illya to unbutton his jacket, already bunched up from sitting, and it parts to either side of his hips. 

Napoleon lifts a hand, wriggling his fingers deliberately. Illya doesn't roll his eyes this time, gaze dropping as Napoleon casually slides a hand across his chest, enjoying the way Illya's eye follows the movement. His fingertips disappear underneath his jacket, slipping into his inner breast pocket. He removes the iPhone and radio from within his inside pocket. Holding them up with a small shake, he places them onto the table next to him. Illya doesn't bother to look at them any longer, eye flickering back up to Napoleon's expectantly. 

Next is a smidge trickier, the modified firearm in the holster under his arm so he has to angle away from Illya. With a quick motion, he unloads and places it next to the iPhone. 

With that, Napoleon leans back onto his hands, the buttons of his tailored shirt straining with the spread of his shoulders. While he’d been showing the tech he’d brought back, Ilya’s hands had moved to the side of Napoleon's thighs. His fingertips were moving over the tight fabric of Napoleon’s trousers, back and forth, one finger tracing the line of the hem.

After Illya doesn’t move, Napoleon tilts his head and asks, “Satisfied, Quartermaster?”

Illya’s expression is unchanged, but Napoleon sees his smile again anyway. But there’s a flavor of smugness there that Napoleon hadn’t expected. “You lost your belt knife.” 

Napoleon’s brow immediately creases in confusion, genuine surprise at the mention. “...The belt doesn’t count. I never give back the belt." 

Illya shakes his head, slow and smirking. “I made it, so it is from Q Branch. It counts.” 

“It’s-” Napoleon sighs and rolls his eyes. There’s no point in arguing it, so he tries the truth. “I left the knife in the neck of the man who had been planning to torture me.” 

Napoleon expects to be teased, to be thrown right back to when he and Illya first met. Instead, Illya still studies Napoleon as he considers this. His fingers drum against Napoleon's side as he thinks. Napoleon can almost hear the gears turning, a mind full of thousands of them, whirring constantly, always in motion. Always in thought, his Q. 

Finally, Illya leans forward and his lips are dangerously close to Napoleon's ear- and Napoleon thinks it's no accident that it’s the side he habitually placed his earpiece- and Illya whispers, "Then that is _exactly_ where my knife should be. Good job, Cowboy."

Napoleon shivers, swallowing thickly. His head tilts in toward Illya, breathing in the cologne and sweat and grease. Illya moves his head too and there's a ghost of hot-wet lips against the side of his face before Napoleon's grabbing Illya by the front of his black shirt and starting to pull. He can feel the scorching heat of Illya’s body with the blunt edge of his fists, the flicker of skin in the corner of his eye as the shirt rode up. 

Napoleon started to make demands, hushed and urgent whispers of Illya’s name. He couldn’t put together words to demand a kiss, but he didn’t need to. Illya didn't hesitate long to indulge him, the faint sandpaper of his jaw bristling against Napoleon's cheek before their lips met. 

One of Illya's hands went into Napoleon's hair, the mess that it was at the moment, the other holding him by the hip. When the hot, wet heat of Illya's tongue licked between his lips, Napoleon moaned and his hands let go of Illya's shirt and clasped tightly behind his neck. 

Napoleon suddenly felt utterly relaxed, like all the nervous tension in his body had been cut by Illya's kiss, replaced entirely by the tender passion of his lover. 

And while Napoleon would certainly love to take things further, he knew the 36 hours and counting that he'd been mostly awake and in motion were going to make that impossible. Well, he was unsure if roughly four hours unconscious counted as _real_ sleep, it certainly didn't feel like it. 

"You're going to fall asleep right here," Illya whispers against his mouth, lower lip sticky against Napoleon's. "I can feel it. You're getting so warm."

"Mmm-mnn," Napoleon shakes his head, eyes suddenly heavy and closed. He kisses Illya occasionally as he speaks, "I'd _never_ sleep.. At MI6.. on a conference table.. Have you even.. _seen_ my bed?" It was the largest, most expensive one he could find. All the better to fit himself and a certain Russian. 

Illya smirks against his mouth. "A few times."

"Only a few? We should.." Napoleon yawns softly, hands dropping so he can hold on loosely to Illya instead. But he still wants to be close to Illya somehow, turning his head and pressing his nose to Illya's neck. The heat and smell of him is wonderful, erasing everything else in the world. He hums contentedly. "Hmm. Um. Fix that."

Illya's body shakes, he's laughing. "You can't sleep here, Cowboy. I am not standing here for your twelve hour nap."

Napoleon makes a disbelieving huff into his neck. 

Illya gets Napoleon back on his feet, big hands supporting him and rubbing his shoulders briefly. Standing by the door, there’s more light and Napoleon- forcing himself into yet another second wind- can give him a better look. He looks as tired as Napoleon feels. 

Illya’s straightening Napoleon’s jacket for him when Napoleon says, “Sorry for the four hours of radio silence, quartermaster. At least you got a break from my incessant yammering.” 

Illya let out a bark of mirthless laughter. “Sure, Cowboy. Like a tropical vacation. Now,” He smoothed Napoleon’s tie too, before prodding him with one finger in his chest for emphasis. “ _Never_ do it again.” 

Napoleon grinned, already rising on his toes to entreat Illya for another kiss. “I love you too, Q.” 

Illya tilted his head and leaned down but before their lips could meet, he murmurs, “ _I know_ ,” and the only sound in the empty hallways is Napoleon’s sputtering. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks 4 reading! Hoping to have more Napollya WIPs finished soon. hmu on my tumblr cos I'll be posting a list soon to figure out what to finish next.. 
> 
> tumblr @ wuhnona


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